A Matter of Skill
by austenfan1990
Summary: After an uncommon battle of wits, Hastings is having trouble accepting his latest defeat at the hands of Poirot on an equally unusual battleground. A short oneshot inspired by the television adaptation of the short story, 'The Lost Mine'.


**A Matter of Skill**

by austenfan1990

**A/N**_**: **_A short little oneshot inspired by the television adaptation of the short story, _The Lost Mine_, though not necessarily taking place during the episode. Poirot and Hastings, as always, belong to the geniuses of Agatha Christie, David Suchet and Hugh Fraser.

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'_Mon ami_?'

I started a little from my seat on the couch; I had been sitting there gazing rather sulkily into space for quite a while now and it took a short while for me to observe Poirot's gaze directed questioningly towards me as he sat at his desk.

'You have not the air happy, Hastings,' he declared when I said nothing.

'Oh,' I said simply, unable to think of anything else to say. I was somewhat tempted to retort_: 'Why am I not surprised?'_ or _'It should be obvious to anyone with eyes, Poirot'_ but I held my tongue, knowing that not only would this sound unnecessarily cruel but would really come to nothing. My eyes darted a little towards the dining table where the remnants of our last scuffle had been cleared up with customary neatness by Poirot and I winced despite myself. This was not the first time that I was to lick my wounds from yet another utter defeat at the hands of my friend. And what was so frustrating really was that I had been so close to triumphing over him, especially when we had started this little battle of ours a week ago.

'I can guess what you are thinking at the moment.' Poirot's voice was characteristically knowing, a trait which I often found vastly irritating at times.

'Indeed, old fellow?' I replied, keeping my voice as calm as I could manage it.

'Indeed, old fellow, I can,' he said, sweetly turning my phrase back to me and mocking me a little with all of his Gallic charm. And apparently the latter was doing what its owner had intended for inwardly I felt my irritation at him subside a little.

_Damn the man_, I thought to myself. _He always knows exactly where to strike...he knows me too well._

'Really, I don't think you can, Poirot,' I said coldly. 'Besides, I've hardly said a word about anything.'

'No,' he admitted slowly, shrugging a little. 'You have not.' He paused. 'But Hastings, you should perhaps attempt to do something about your speaking countenance. In the past five minutes your face alone has told me what your lips have not.'

Resisting the urge to burst out about his endless critique on what he termed as my 'speaking countenance', I instead decided to keep an air of dignified silence which I hoped would induce him to make some sort of apology or other. After all, I had always been the one who caved in first during our various disagreements in the past and I wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Slightly cruel and uncharacteristic of me perhaps but I was still brooding and my mind was not yet open to the idea of admitting yet another defeat.

Minutes passed. There was the ticking of the clock from his desk, the sound of someone slamming a door in the flat above us, the squealing of tyres as a car down in the streets below grinded to a sudden stop. But not a sound from the man sitting quietly at his desk. He was presently on his pedestal of sorts and I doubted whether he would ever deign to descend from it. No, he was much too set in his ways to ever do that!

Then I heard a small sigh which was then accompanied by Poirot rising to his feet. He made his way towards me, his dapper little self looking as tidy and orderly as ever though there was an expression of unusual solemnity in his face. He appeared to be contemplating something. Perhaps he was attempting to choose his words carefully or perhaps endeavouring to decide on a course of action. Perhaps even a long-awaited apology? At length, he appeared to decide on the latter.

He opened his lips and my heart skipped a little in anticipation of this small miracle which was about to take place…

'It is only a game, Hastings.'

I blinked a little, I admit, rather stupidly in astonishment. Blinking gave way to staring but then recovering my wits, I said rather petulantly:

'It might be to _you_, Poirot, but I was certainly getting the better of you.'

'_Sacré! _That is not so, _mon ami_, no one could ever get the better of me!' came the incredulous reply.

'Entirely untrue. Your properties were going like wildfire under my hands at the beginning,' I cried, standing my ground. 'You were mortgaged up to the hilt!'

'Ah, but not Mayfair and Park Lane. Nor were Bond Street, Oxford Street or Regent Street.'

'That's only five properties. Who had the rest of them?'

'That fact is unimportant, Hastings. It is not quantity which matters in Monopoly…it is, as you have repeatedly mentioned to me on countless occasions, a matter of skill.'

'But you can't deny that I beat you at least three times last week –'

'_Pardon_, but remind me again, Hastings, who was the one who had to pay two thousand pounds in rent only a quarter of an hour ago?'

The reminder of my recent and resounding defeat struck me deeply and I retreated once again into silence.

Sensing my mood, Poirot lowered himself into his usual armchair near the couch and fixed his attention upon me.

'Hastings.'

His tone wasn't angry or impatient as I had expected it to be. Instead it was gentle and soothing and I was forced to turn my head and look at him.

Like his voice, Poirot's face was gentle and sympathetic and I was struck by how little if not any of his recent arrogance and denials of having never been beaten at anything remained in his countenance.

'I have something to admit, _mon ami._ Would you like me to convey it to you?'

'Only if you'd like to,' I said, uncertain of what he was intending to say.

'_Bon_. I usually do not admit to things such as these but I will admit it nonetheless. While I may have the skill of doing well at nearly everything I turn my hand to, you, _mon cher_ Hastings, have the gift of pointing the way when I am entirely at a loss.'

To tell the truth, I had heard Poirot admit this to me several times in the past but it was a certain word which he used that caught my attention.

'Gift, eh?' I said, smiling despite myself.

'But yes,' replied the Belgian, nodding emphatically. 'Not merely a matter of skill, Hastings. You, _mon ami_, have the instinct! Not only an instinct but indeed a rare gift. That I value more than any ability at winning countless games of Monopoly or even bridge. _Ma foi_, but when do games like these ever play a role in the solving of crimes?'

It was obvious to anyone that Poirot was trying his utmost to cheer me up and it was admittedly rather uncharacteristic of him to show his intentions so clearly but I was nevertheless touched by his actions.

'Oh, I wouldn't say too much too soon, Poirot,' I countered teasingly, my mood brightening considerably. 'They might even help you catch a criminal one day, who knows?'

'_Non_, that I do not foresee.' He gave a little exaggerated shudder. 'Not in a hundred years would Monopoly or bridge beat the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot!'

It was here that my friend made one of his rare mistaken guarantees but then again, it's sometimes instinct and not a matter of skill which counts.

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**A/N no. 2:** The stories which Hastings refers to at the end where these two games will play a part in the solution of the mystery are of course (hopefully without giving away too much!): _Cards on the Table_ and the television adaptation of _The Lost Mine_.


End file.
